My Sun
by kili-grabmyhand
Summary: Kili saw red when he needed to see gold, tasted blood when he longed for death, and he hissed at Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and cursed his King Under the Mountain with such vehemence, such disdain and disrespect, that he ought to be banished.
1. My Star & My Sun

.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

.

When Fíli died, he took the sun with him.

Kíli grieved with his entire body, he wept and wailed unabashedly, head thrown back in agony. He thrashed about madly, wildly, and with such fury that he was restrained by firm hands, broken hands, hands that were battered and calloused and careful.

Thorin held Kíli against his own wounded body and stilled his nephew, his heir, his only, by holding him closer, close enough that, as Kíli wept, as he cried and cursed and moaned about his miseries – loudly enough that their burglar burst inside, hand on the hilt of his sword, with Dwalin in tow – each sob tore through Thorin too.

Arms encircled Kíli carefully, as though he were delicate, as though the warrior, the heir, the bowman, might shatter into a thousand pieces. Kíli sobbed fiercely, uncontrollably, in a manner that was certainly not befitting, certainly not kingly, but he cared little for the ugly sounds that tore through him, he cared only for the arms that held him, the arms that failed and lied and betrayed.

Fists collided harshly with Thorin's broad, broken, bandaged chest. Kíli did not seek out solace, nor did he find it in the remarkably gentle hold of Thorin. His soul was corrupted, riddled with unease and discontentment. All he found was rage. He writhed and struggled and fought vainly against him, against his foul words and his unforgivable lies, and their brave burglar remained no longer.

Kíli hissed at Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and cursed his King Under the Mountain with such vehemence, such disdain that he ought to be punished, banished, disgraced for displaying such disrespect, but Thorin only held his nephew closer, only weakly whispered apologies against his hair, words so small that they were nearly inaudible. He continued to mouth these words until they turned soundless, until they etched their way into Kíli, into his hair, his skin, his heart.

Tears mingled with dirt and dried blood as Kíli wept, as he called for his brother, as he fisted his hands into the thin material of Thorin's tunic and held on as though this was all that kept the grief from consuming him. Thorin winced, but held Kíli tighter, held him out of grief and regret and fear that, if left alone, his nephew might drown himself in sorrows. Thorin held Kíli until all movements ceased, all except the almost imperceptible tremble to his shoulders as his grieving turned silent, private, intimate.

Once released, Kíli tore at his hair. Kíli wound his fingers through dark, wild, untamed locks of hair that were not braided nor were they gloriously golden, nothing was, for when Fíli died he took the sun and the stars and all that was light with him. Kíli tore at his hair fiercely as he cried and cried, howling as Thorin tried to soothe him, tried to ease his aching soul, tried to pry his fingers from where they curled into his hair, but Kíli refused to relent.

Kíli saw red when he needed to see gold, tasted blood when he longed for death, for unity and peace, and felt tears as they prickled his eyes when he wished to feel the arms of a brother wrapped warmly around his waist, and the tears continued to spill, continued to create tracks through dirt and blood and tear stains that would never truly fade. Kíli wept then wilted, crumbling and shattering as he soon turned sorrowful and begged and pleaded with Uncle Thorin to _stop, please, stop telling lie__s._

Ire now diminished, grief consumed Kíli. He let his eyes fall shut as Thorin settled on the bedroll beside him, as Thorin held him closer and hummed against his hair, hair tangled with dirt and blood and beads, beads from Fíli, beads of Fíli, and as Thorin sung softly and brokenly against the brown hair matted with blood and beads and dirt and leaves, he grieved over not one lost nephew, but two.

When Fíli died, he took Kíli with him.

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A/N: I'm not entirely sure where this came from. I thank you all for reading, and hope that you enjoyed this piece!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately I do not own the illustrious work that is The Hobbit.


	2. Your Absence

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Your absence has gone through me like  
a thread through a needle everything  
I do is stitched with its colour.

.

Fíli was stitched throughout Kíli.

Kíli latched onto the memory of a brother, of a bond sworn unbreakable, but these were delusions, fractured pieces, fragments of Fíli and they would never suffice, for each time Kíli outstretched a hand, he would be abandoned. Fíli dispelled to darkness and left Kíli to dwell in silence and sorrow, plagued with hauntings of his other half.

Death was excruciating for Fíli; it was wretched and agonising and he felt it acutely, felt it with each ragged breath he drew, each unbidden cry that clawed its way out of his throat, and Kíli felt it too. Kíli felt it before he saw it, felt it first in the uneasiness of his own soul, then he saw it, he looked upon Fíli and felt such utter agony in his chest.

Fíli felt his senses fading, vision waning, dim heartbeat falling softer, slower, weaker. Kíli screamed, hoarse and broken and fierce, a mangled sound that pained Fíli more than wounds and grief and a harrowing death ever could. He felt his blood thrum as Kíli neared, as Kíli buried a series of arrows in the chest and face and neck of the orc, and Fíli's heart beat faster and stronger and _louder_, as though it were calling for Kíli.

Kíli fell to his knees, flung his bow aside as he crumpled beside his brother, his heart, the other half of his soul. Gently, he turned Fíli over, so that he might rest upon his back rather than his side. Kíli whimpered brokenly when his eyes fell upon the gaping wound in his brother's chest. Devastation was etched into each ragged, broken line of Kíli's face, a face stained with blood and grime, a face once youthful now plagued with grief, a face worn by a war that he should not have had to die for and aged by a journey that he should not have embarked upon.

Unbidden tears spilled from Fíli's eyes as Kíli pressed one hand to his wound, the other carefully cupped the left side of Fíli's face. His lips trembled, heart clenched in his chest as Kíli looked upon him with wide, frightened eyes. Kíli felt that he too was destined for death, for he felt his own soul fading, felt it in his bones and in the longing of his heart to journey only where Fíli did.

Dark crimson blood spilled from the corners of Fíli's mouth, it tricked down his chin, wept from the jagged wounds and gashes scattered across his chest, and seeped between Kíli's slender fingers as he pressed down pointlessly. Kíli raised his hand away from Fíli's face and brushed the hair back from his brother's forehead, fingers running through golden locks matted with dirt and beads and bleached with blood.

Fíli cried not for his own misery and misfortune, but for Kíli's. Kíli watched Fíli like he did when they were children, when Kíli was terrified of the thunder and he crept out of his cot to cower beneath it, and Fíli would find him, as he swore he always would, and he would outstretch a hand to his sobbing, shaking, terrified mess of a brother and whisper, _Kíli, grab my hand._

War was no place for Kíli, Kíli who was wild and untamed and more suited to roaming forests for game or working in the forges as opposed to this, this savagery, this carnage that raged on around them, but Kíli was ignorant to this bloodshed, he was immune to it. All he saw was Fíli, his Fíli, his brother who coughed and spluttered up blood and beckoned him closer with a look, all it took was a look, all it ever took was a look.

Fíli, with blood on his lips and tears in his eyes, spoke so softly, begged so gently that his words were barely more than a broken rasp drowned out by ferocious cries of war, "Kíli, grab my hand," but Kíli heard, he heard over the roar of battle, and his hand stilled in Fíli's hair, his shoulders tensed and his entire body turned rigid.

As he did when they were little more than dwarflings, Kíli hesitated. He would peek up at Fíli from beneath that brown mess of untamed hair and his eyes would hold such naked fear that it pained Fíli, it ached to see his brother frightened, terrified to the point of trembling. On the field of battle where Fíli had fallen and met his fate, it was truly no different. Raw fear lurked in those wide, tormented eyes of Kíli's.

Unable to muster the strength to find Kíli's hand and clasp it tightly, Fíli cried, "Hold my hand, Kíli." but he refused, and Fíli began to panic, despair surged throughout him at the thought that he should never see his Kíli smile or hear his easy laugh ring throughout the silence.

Kíli pressed his forehead to Fíli's, eyes clenched shut as he wept against him, fierce and silent, tears spilling against his brother's skin. A choked sob tore through his chest as Fíli cried, "Kee, grab my hand and I will _never_ let go," and when Kíli's hand finally found Fíli's, he clutched it tightly, so tightly that it hurt, just like when they were children.

Fíli and Kíli were threaded throughout each other, bound by more than a bloodline. Their souls were entangled, stitched and sown and patched together. In his heart Fíli knew that when they would be found together, cold and still and pale, their fingers would still be intertwined.

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A/N: Thank you all for the follows/favourites/reviews - you're all wonderful. The author for the lovely poem at the beginning is W.S Merwin. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the illustrious work that is The Hobbit.


	3. Come With Me

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_Come with me_, I said  
And no one knew where  
or how my pain throbbed.

No carnations or barcaroles  
for me, only a wound that love  
had opened. I said it again,  
as if I were dying,

_Come with me_,

And no one saw the  
moon that bled in my  
mouth or the blood that  
rose into the silence.

That is why when I heard  
your voice repeat, _Come with_  
_me_, it was as if you had let loose  
the grief, the love, the fury.

.

Gently, Kíli pressed a kiss to Fíli's forehead.

He tasted blood and grime and his lips trembled as he breathed small, selfish words against pale skin that was cold and clammy with sweat, "Come with me," he said, and then he stole Fíli, his Fíli, his sun and his stars and his treasure. He gathered his precious, precious gold up in his arms and fled from carnage and war cries and kingdoms crumbling to ruins beneath his boots, stumbling and staggering as he neared the edge of the forest.

Weeping wounds and aching bones were forgotten as Kíli settled them against the trunk of an old tree, with branches that twisted up towards the skies on broken, contorted angles. With Fíli's back to his chest, Kíli hummed softly and carded his fingers through tresses of tarnished gold, his heart stuttered in his chest as Fíli fought to catch a breath.

In Kíli's arms, Fíli coughed and spluttered and seized. No songs were sung, no soft, soothing words were whispered. Stifling a sob, Kíli wound his arms around Fíli and cradled his brother's bloodied body against his own. And it was in that silence, as Fíli bled out in his arms, that Kíli knew of true heartache, the kind that turned a part of Thorin to stone, the kind that only love could cause.

"Kíli," Fíli choked. "Where are we?"

"Erebor." Kíli answered, too swiftly, too softly. "The Lonely Mountain."

Fíli smiled feebly. "Is it everything that we hoped for?" Behind him, Kíli stiffened.

Tears burnt his eyes and there was a terrible, terrible ache in his chest. "We're home, Fíli."

Death crept up slowly on Fíli, unfairly so. He knew not of a peaceful death, nor a swift one. Blood oozed and gushed, then it trickled, slow and languid. Kíli, with lies on his lips and a death wish in his heart, kept his hands firmly pressed to the wound. It slowed the flow, but it would not cease, it could not be stopped.

"You will make a fair king," Fíli rasped.

Kíli winced. He said nothing, only tightened his hold on Fíli.

"A king with no braids," he chuckled. It sounded as though he were choking. "But still a fair one."

"Stay," Kíli pleaded. He instinctively drew Fíli closer. "Stay, or I will follow you. I swear it."

Fíli sighed softly, contentedly. "I'm home." he said and blindly outstretched a bloodied hand for Kíli to take. He spoke with an air of inevitably, of resignation, as though he knew of his fate and was glad to have met it. "You are my home, Kee. Always."

Slowly, Kíli laced their fingers together. Blood against blood. In his arms, Fíli wheezed and shook and stuttered. Kíli buried his face into Fíli's matted hair to smother his sobs. "What have I done to you?"

"You brought me home." Fíli said. His chest felt painfully constricted.

"Home?" Kíli's voice broke miserably over the word. "This isn't our home."

"Kíli," Fíli sighed. His tone held a weariness that Kíli often heard from Thorin. "Let it be."

"You have to come with me, Fee." Kíli blubbered. "You have to come home."

Fíli's breaths grew sharper, shorter. "Hold my hand," he barely managed. "Take me home, Kíli."

"I am," Kíli said. He peered over Fíli's shoulder, mortified. "Fee, why can't you feel my hand? Fee?"

When Fíli died, Kíli felt it. His heart faltered in his chest. Fury and grief and fire flooded throughout Kíli, turning the blood in his veins colder and colder. He drew Fíli closer, he clung to his lifeless limbs and his heavy hands and chanted the words, _You have to come home,_ over and over, like a prayer, a curse. Kíli was suffocating, drowning in sorrows and perpetual silence.

He buried his face into the crook of Fíli's neck and screamed.

* * *

Kíli woke with a scream caught in his throat.

He dreamt of Fíli, it was always the same. Fíli, on the field of death and promise with the poisoned blade of an orc buried deep in his chest, too deep that he could be salvaged, not deep enough that he should know a painless death, a peaceful passing. Fíli crumbled to his knees, collapsed on his side, choked on his own blood.

Kíli knew no greater agony than this. It was indescribable. It did not creep upon him slowly, it had swallowed him whole. Grief was bitter and spiteful and it spat cruel words, unforgivable things. It drove Kíli to hate, to despise, to flee. He staggered forward into the night, blindly, while Thorin rest soundly, utterly unaware of his absence.

Immersed in immense silence and darkness, Kíli sought out Fíli.

_Come_ _with me_, he thought he heard the trees whisper. Kíli clutched at the bark of an old, twisted oak, and steadied himself against it as the memories flooded back, an endless onslaught of misery that brought Kíli to his knees. He retched and heaved and choked on the dry sobs that snared in his throat.

Blood and fire filled his mouth as he clawed at the earth, as he raked blunt nails through mud and leaves and blood and bones. Moonlight spilled through the treetops and bounced off of the metal of a blade. Kíli wiped roughly at his eyes and glanced up slowly, uncertainly

His heart stuttered to a harsh, abrupt stop.

All of the air left his lungs as Fíli emerged from the shadows. A wide, gaping hole marked the middle of his chest. Blood wept through the silken fabric of his tunic. His kind eyes were dulled, his too-pale lips upturned in the faintest of smiles. There was blood matted through his hair and smeared across his skin but he stood easily.

"Fee," Kíli breathed. "Is that you?" he asked, timidly.

There was a sharp, brief twinge in Kíli's side. But there was a greater aching in his chest, a longing to be reunited. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he rose slowly to his feet. Fíli uttered not a single word, he simply held out his hand for Kíli to take, and Kíli swore that he could hear those words in the breeze again, the ones whispered by the trees, carried by the wind, _Come_ _with me_.

Kíli clasped Fíli's hand tightly. He let Fíli lead him away.

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A/N: I apologise for the delay in updating, but everything that could potentially prevent this from happening has happened. I'm a little worried about this chapter because it is the first time I've written proper dialogue and I tend to stick with description.

Also, the poem for this chapter is 'Come With Me, I Said, And No One Knew' by Pablo Neruda and it is absolutely beautiful. It inspired me. I didn't use the entire poem (I struggled not to), so I recommend that you all go and find it.

Enjoy!


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